


Himself

by Quillweave



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: But it's fun to think about, Comedy, Confusion, Daedra, Daedra Worship, Daedric Princes, Gen, Identity Issues, Shivering Isles, This was confusing to write I'm not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 04:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillweave/pseuds/Quillweave
Summary: The Madgod has been many things, at one time or another. Jyggalag, Himself, the mantled champion, each melding into the other. It's enough to drive a person mad.





	Himself

“My brothers and sisters! My children. My lovers, my _friends._

Though this chapel pays homage to our beloved prophet Arden-Sul, we cannot forget to pay our respects to He who so inspired him. Who inspires each and every one of us – in our art, our lovemaking, our feasting! Who inspires our songs and our dances and yes, my Demented friends, even your bloodlust and paranoia. He who made us all what we are, the Prince and Madgod, Sheogorath Himself.

We are truly the luckiest, most blessed mortals to walk any plane in existence. Moreso than Hircine’s pups in the Hunting Grounds, than Azura’s attendants in Moonshadow. More than Sanguine’s revelers and Molag Bal’s slaves.

We know this.

But _why?_

I have thought long and hard on this, friends. On what separates us and our beloved Prince from the others, what makes us special. And I have come to realize the truth.

It is that we are flawed. Our Prince is _flawed._

Now, now! _Please,_ don’t make those faces. Allow me to explain, my friends.

The other Princes embrace mortals for their uses, as tools and agents. Despite our frailties as a species, despite our foolishness, selfishness, short-sightedness, they use us because it is the best way for them to meet their ends.

Not so, with our Lord. We are not here to act as some movers of great plots. We are not gears in the clockwork of schemes. We are here as ourselves. We are here because of what we are _shunned_ for in any other world. We are here because those worlds rejected us. Called us foolish, broken, _mad._

Sheogorath takes us unto him not in spite of our flaws, but _because_ of them. Because He Himself knows what it is to be so broken. To hunt, to lie, to murder and enslave – these are things one _does,_ not what one _is_. The other Princes show facets of what mortals do, good and evil, but not what they _are_. There are no mirrors that show our shattered selves, save that of our magnificent Lord himself.

To be flawed is, surely, the closest a god can _be_ to a mortal. And that is why He loves us so dearly, and why we worship Him so. He has been _broken_. He is not what he once was. He knows what it is to be fragmented, and embraces us because we can share it all, together.

He loves us in our imperfection, for He _is_ Imperfection.

So return to your goblets and glutting, my loves. Return to your painting, whether on the canvas of heaving breasts with a tongue, or with bloodied knives through an unsuspecting back. Burn down your home, count every step from here to the Palace, cry and sing and scream and moan your praises to the sky!

Whatever you do, do so knowing Sheogorath loves you for it.

Thank you all.”

Only when the Sacellum Arden-Sul has emptied does he step down from the lectern, inhaling deep. Pleased with himself, with his lesson, even knowing that most will forget it by their next dance, their next kill, their next orgasm.

He moves to the basin, filled with the blessing water of Arden-Sul himself. Rivulets run down his face, down his chin and the high collar of his robes as he stands to meet His gaze.

A toothed grin. “A _lovely_ sermon, Dervenin.”

“I – thank you, my Lord!” The Bosmer is enraptured already at the praise, practically falling over himself to back away and make room to kneel. “You are kind, so _kind_ to us!”

“Aye, that I am.” The Madgod buffs His fingers on His lapel, turning His gaze to the empty pews. Only faintly He feels the press of lips against His feet, losing Himself in the maelstrom of His thoughts.

He’s still getting used to this skin. The hum of it, like a thousand thousand soul gems overfilled and ready to burst. Like a shock spell held back, tingling and stinging on the fingers. Hard still to wrap His twisting, ever-shifting mind around the concept that His boots, being kissed by the Elf at his feet, are only there because He _wants_ them to be.

He could make it a scalon’s foot. Or a tongue. Or the feet He _used_ to see when _he_ looked down. Sometimes the leather boots of a padfoot, soft footfalls. Sometimes the steel of a soldier, a champion, lined with Imperial gold for all he’d done.

Two sides He used to be. Flashes of images. A mother’s head and a fox’s skin. An Emperor’s heart and a dragon’s blood.

No wonder becoming this had been so _easy_. What was it He’d said, before He’d been Himself? Duality. Something about duality, His land, His nature, explaining Himself to himself.

What a mess. Enough to drive someone _mad,_ it is. Of course, it isn’t the first time He’s been split. Not the first time He’s changed. _Change and permanency!_

“Oh, sweet Dervenin.” He sighs, tilting His weight onto His staff and regarding the priest with hooded eyes. “However did ye puzzle it out, lad?”

“I – I simply _knew,_ my Lord. I knew that for you to embrace us as you do, you must have known our pain. To be mad is to be cracked, broken, and _you_ are madness incarnate. Perfect imperfection. I knew you must have been broken by someone, Madgod.”

“Well, yer not _wrong_.” A lazy shove with His foot to push the Wood elf away. He strolls across the Sacellum, swinging His cane up to balance on one finger. Oh, yes, He’d _liked_ that trick, hadn’t He? It doesn’t come as naturally now, not yet. “But what yer saying, lad, what yer _teaching_ these fools? Why, it’s alarmingly close to _heresy,_ dear Dervenin.”

 “Yes, my Lord.” He bowed his head to the stonework. “But it is the truth.”

“Aye.” And for a moment, he-He-himself-not _who IS HE,_ feels it – the wriggling, shifting sensation of His being, of what he was and what He is and _who._ It itches, feels too tight. Like a snake trying to shed its skin except somehow inside out.

It’s been a trying few weeks. Or months? _Tirdas?_ Adjusting to His new title as Lord of Madness, slowly losing his old self shred by shred. Feeling his mortality burn away. Cleaning up the mess Jyggalag left behind, so _inconsiderate,_ and yet that was _Him_ who’d made that mess, wasn’t it?

Him, but not Him, but not _him_ either.

A long sigh.

“My Lord? If there is anything I can do to serve you, anything at all.” The priest again. He’d gotten brave, clambered up close enough to cling to the edge of His tunic, practically humping His leg like a dog. “Please, only command me. I am yours, frail body to cracked mind. _Everything_ in this realm is yours.”

Everything. Every blade of grass, every drop of dew. Every bead of sweat on the forehead of a grunting, moaning Maniac, every drip of blood from the lips of a starved, desperate Demented.

Frankly?

It is a _lot_ of pressure.

His fingers creep into the Bosmer’s hair as he sighs underneath him in unabashed pleasure. Ah, Dervenin. A good egg, this one. Oh, a lecherous, gluttonous, condescending _fool_ , but one of His, after all. And He does love his children. Truly, He does. He wouldn’t be Himself, whoever _that_ is, without them.

Slowly, like sparks climbing up a wick, an idea forms. Golden eyes come alight, catlike and amused.

He has so many children. So many He’s touched in the past, their minds open to His influence, ripe for His enjoyment. So many great works He remembers with pleasure, with pride.

What better way to help Him adjust than to review his predecessor’s greatest works, hm? The greatest and maddest of all. A walking tour. A little _break,_ a chance to gather thoughts His and not His.

He grins. This time, He doesn’t have to think about it – the cane twirls nimbly, finger to finger, as though He’s done it for eons.

After all, He has.

“I’ve had an idea, Dervenin. How would’ye feel about a _vacation?”_

 


End file.
